Cancer Diary: Hospice, the Hospital Bed, and the Psychology of “Not Yet”
When hospice arrived, they brought the usual equipment: the folder of forms, the quiet voices, and the hospital bed. The bed is always the centerpiece of their plan — adjustable, wipeable, railings ready, a machine built for decline. It’s meant to make caregiving easier, to prevent falls, to protect fragile skin. It’s the “right” thing, medically speaking. Carl took one look at it and refused. Not angrily. Not dramatically. Just a firm, quiet no . He would not lie in that bed. He would not be “that” person. Not yet. People talk about denial as if it’s a flaw, but I’ve come to see it differently. Denial can be a kind of dignity — a last boundary a person draws around their identity. For Carl, the hospital bed wasn’t a convenience. It was a symbol. A line in the sand. A declaration that the end had arrived. And he wasn’t ready to cross that line, even when his body was telling the truth more clearly than his words. So the hospital bed sat there, unused. A piece of medical ...